The Venice Conspiracy (9 page)

It’s long after dawn when they next check him. The healer seems pleased with the progress of the last few hours. ‘The gods have taken the fury from his wounds. He will be left with scars, but they will look naught but the scratches of an animal.’

‘And his sight?’

‘Sweet Tetia, it is too soon to speak of this. There was burning ash
and wood rooted in his orbs. If the celestial gods wish their seer to see, then it shall be so.’ He takes her smooth and gentle hands in his bony old fingers. ‘Your love for him will impress the gods and bring him fortitude. Hold nothing back. Use your most feminine powers to bring him comfort and healing in every way you can. His body is hurt, but so too is his spirit and his soul.’

Tetia nods. ‘I will always be indebted to you for your help.’

He stands and hugs her. ‘Then I hope I will be repaid by living long enough to see that child of yours come into your life.’

She instinctively puts a hand to her stomach.

‘And remember, you need to take care of yourself and that baby as well as your husband,’ Larthuza adds as he starts to prepare a poultice of feverfew.

‘I will.’ Tetia wrinkles her nose. The poultice smells worse than the sulphur baths her mother is so fond of. ‘I hope its healing power is as strong as its stench. What will it do?’

Larthuza laughs. ‘It will make
you
feel sick, such is its noxiousness. But it will further remove the fire from Teucer’s burns. I dare not give him more valerian, so this will help keep him bound in the healing folds of gentle sleep.’

Larthuza removes the pads of ram’s wool and pats the poultice gently over the netsvis’s eyes. ‘Injuries such as Teucer’s are similar to those of the battlefield. When the body is wounded it creates its own medicines, powerful potions that race in the blood and kill the pain, but only for a short spell. When the body’s potions are spent, then terrible pain surfaces. Feverfew will ease the agony in Teucer’s mind.’

Tetia is still grimacing from the smell. ‘I hope it is so.’

‘It is, my child. Now I must go. There is sickness with a newborn and I promised its parents I would attend.’

Tetia touches his arm tenderly. ‘Thank you again.’

‘You are most welcome. Now I think you should settle beside your husband for a while and get some sleep.’ He leans closer and whispers, ‘Baby will need it too.’

Tetia smiles as he leaves. She would indeed like to rest. And she supposes it is her duty to endure the awful smell of the poultice. She wipes Teucer’s brow and moistens his dry mouth with fresh water, then she lies next to him and kisses him softly on his dampened lips. She closes her eyes and prays for a speedy recovery.

She is in that magical space between daydreams and sleep, when it happens –

Teucer grabs her
by the throat.

Squeezes so hard she cannot breathe.

She kicks out but can’t get free. Grabs his wrists but can’t unlock his grip.

‘Be gone! Be gone!’ shouts Teucer. ‘Dark demon with no name, I vanquish you!’

Tetia gasps for air.

‘I need to kill it. I must kill it!’ His grip tightens murderously.

Tetia kicks again. Connects with something fleshy. She thrashes harder. Her foot hits Larthuza’s fire and scatters embers.

Blackness floods in.

She’s losing consciousness.

Through the sickly fog she sees Teucer’s outstretched arm, his blistered face and the creamy poultice masking his eyes.

And then she collapses.

Present Day

Luna Hotel Baglioni, Venice

By the time they’ve finished making love, the coffee is undrinkable and the pastries too paltry to pacify Tom and Tina’s raging hunger. They quickly shower and dress. Downstairs, in the hotel’s palatial Canova Room, they persuade staff to let them catch the last of the breakfast buffet.

Tom takes in the splendour of the giant ancient oils hung on rich, oak-panelled walls as they work through fresh fruit, smoked salmon with scrambled eggs and enough fruit juice to fill the lagoon outside their window. ‘So, my wonderful writer friend, what can you tell me about Venice?’

Tina looks over her coffee cup. ‘You didn’t read a guide book before you came?’

‘Glanced at some guff.’

‘Hey, travel writing isn’t “guff”. It’s how I earn my living.’

‘Sorry. I forgot. But tell me anyway – give me the verbal tour.’

‘Okay. Well, next to Rome, Venice is my favourite place on earth.
La Serrenista
has blessed
us with so much: Marco Polo, Canaletto, Casanova, Vivaldi – the Red Priest …’ She laughs. ‘The list of famous Venetians is endless! This is the place that gave us wonderful words like mandolin and
ciao
and awful ones like ghetto and arsenal. But more than anything, I love the fact that in Venice time stands still – there are no cars on the streets, no overhead power cables and none of those ghastly cell-phone masts. Come here, and you just drift back hundreds of years.’

‘Here’s to drifting.’ He raises a tumbler of juice to toast the fact.

‘To drifting.’ They clink glasses. She sips then asks him, ‘You remember any of the guff?’

Tom looks thoughtful. ‘Some. Way back, there was nothing here but water and marshes, rough fishing harbours and stuff. Then, old Attila the Hun appears in the middle of the first century and people scatter from his murderous wake to the islands around here.’

‘How many islands?’ she says, sounding like a teacher.

‘Lots.’

She laughs. ‘About a hundred and eighteen, maybe a hundred and twenty – even the Venetians don’t always agree.’

‘Like I said, lots.’

‘The main area of initial settlement turned out to be Torcello. Venice itself didn’t develop any real influence until malaria swept through the Torcello and people drifted down to what we now call the Rialto.’

‘Seventh century?’

‘Eighth. The Venetians chose their first doge – a strange sort of democratically elected quasi-religious governor – and set up their own regional government in 720-something. They went from strength to strength and never faltered until the great plague. That knocked them sideways. They got all religious, then, being typically Italian, went off into a period of massive sexual and artistic indulgence. Finally, Napoleon brought their endless partying and copulating to a rude end in the eighteenth century.’

‘Impressive. You ever get bored with travel writing, you could probably bag a job as a city guide.’

‘Thanks.’ Tina wipes a white cotton napkin across her lips. ‘Let’s completely change the subject, now. And forgive me, because this is a bit personal – but do you know that you have about the worst dress sense I’ve ever seen?’

Tom laughs and holds up his hands in surrender. ‘
Mea culpa!
I have no defence. I could plead that my suitcase was lost when I left LA – which is true – but the fact is, you’re still right. It contained nothing that would have convinced you I could strut a catwalk.’

‘You don’t like clothes?’

‘Sure, I like
them.
I like them
– to feel comfortable, to fit – be clean – last a long time. Beyond that, I guess they do nothing for me.’

‘Oh my God, you’re a heathen! You can’t walk around Italy with beliefs like that! I think you can even be deported for holding such views.’

They both laugh. The kind of relaxed laughter that inches people closer.

‘Okay, listen, I’m gonna have to convert you. Make sure you see the error of your ways.’

‘And can you do that on five hundred euros? Because that’s about all I’ve got in funds to kit myself out with.’

Tina rests her hand on her chin and pretends to look thoughtful and serious. ‘Hrrm, now let me think. That could buy you a beautiful Versace or Hermès tie. And I can easily picture you in that – just that. But it’s not going to be any good for you once you step outside my bedroom.’

A stern-faced man in a dark suit and tie approaches their table.
‘Buongiorno. Scusi, signorina
.’ The man looks across at Tina’s guest. ‘Signor – you are Tom Shaman?’

‘Yes. Yes, I am. Why?’

The hotel clerk glances towards the doorway. ‘Signor, there are two officers from the Carabinieri in reception. They wish to talk with you.’

666
BC

Larthuza’s Hut, Atmanta

Teucer wakes in a makeshift bed on the floor. He’s dis oriented. He can feel the warmth of Larthuza’s fire on his face but can see nothing. Pain prickles in every pore on his face, like nettles rubbed into livid wounds. Gradually, he becomes aware of the foul-smelling poultice stuck to his eyes.

He feels claustrophobic. Panicky.

Slowly, in his world of oppressive blackness, he starts to remember it all. The sacrificial circle, the
oblong he’d cut in the clay, the strange snakes and figures he’d formed with his knife.

The revelations.

And then – the fire. The roaring fire he’d made for the gods and had flung himself into.

The memory scares him. ‘Tetia! Tetia, are you there?’

His wife is huddled beneath a sheepskin in the far corner of the healer’s hut. The shock of being choked unconscious by the man she loves has left her terrified. Too scared to answer to his voice. She puts her hands protectively over her unborn child. Had he really tried to kill them both?

‘Tetia!’

Perhaps his violence was a result of his fever and his own desperate fight for life? Teucer had never tried to harm her before. She tries to reassure herself.

‘Tetia. Are you there?’

She drops the skin – and her fears – and moves towards him. ‘I’m here. I’m coming.’

Teucer spreads his arms.

She tentatively offers a hand to his outstretched fingers. ‘Wait. Wait there, I’ll get you water to drink.’

He grabs her hand. ‘No! Don’t go. I need you. I need to tell you something.’

She fights back her fears. He is changed. Maybe mad. And will probably never see again.

Teucer senses her apprehension and squeezes her hand. ‘I need you to help me, Tetia. You must destroy the markings I made.’

She flinches. ‘The ones by the fire, in the curte?’

‘Yes. Go there straight away. Do not look directly at them. Just scrub at the land until there is no sign of what I made.’

She looks confused. ‘Why? What troubles you so?’

‘The markings are demonic. They signify the coming of something more awful than you or I have ever known.’

She can see how distressed he is and puts her hands to his damaged face. ‘Tell me what you saw. Speak of it. Share it and let me help you.’

Teucer thinks it weak not to keep the worries to himself. But his blindness scares him and the soft touch of Tetia’s hands dissolves his inner strength. ‘Some demonic god spoke to me. Revealed three visions that will determine our fate, the fate of Atmanta and the fate of future generations.’

‘What visions?’

Teucer imagines himself
back in the curte, demons whirling around him. ‘They all took place against some gates, giant gates made out of snakes.’

‘Snakes?’

Teucer uses his hands. ‘Some were dangling, some were sideways. They were all over each other, spitting fire and baring fangs.’

Tetia tries to comfort him. ‘You need not speak of this if it pains you too much.’

‘I will finish.’ He dry-swallows. ‘I realise now what the gates were – they were the Gates of Destiny, linking our world with the afterlife. In the first vision, they were guarded by an unknown demon of terrible power. It is part human, part goat. Horned with eyes as red as fire, he carries a trident dripping with human flesh.’

‘Maybe it was Aita, or Minotaur, and you mistook—’

Teucer cuts her off. ‘Please, Tetia – do not interrupt me. I can speak of this only once, and then you must never mention it. Do you swear?’ Tetia looks down at his desperate grip on her hand. ‘I swear.’

His voice becomes hoarse and low. ‘It is not Aita. Nor any monstrous form of bull. I am sure of it.’ He tries to shut out the memory of his agony in the curte. ‘He is the lord of all darkness and far superior to Aita. The demons and stolen souls of the underworld worship him. He is the font of all evil, the source of everything bad.’

Tetia is frightened. The child inside her moves awkwardly, almost as though it senses her fear.

‘In the second revelation I saw a netsvis at the gates. He was full of doubt, empty of faith, like I feel now, and impaled upon his own lituus.’ He lifts a hand to his bandaged eyes, and Tetia wonders whether beneath the soiled cloths he is crying.

Tetia puts a hand to his forehead. He is hot and, she hopes, hallucinatory. His horrendous ramblings may be naught but wild nightmares.

But perhaps not.

Perhaps a new god really has revealed himself. A singular, universal master greater than any known to man. ‘You said
three
visions, Teucer. The third – what was the third?’

He fumbles for her hands. Not until he is holding both of them does he dare speak. ‘I saw two lovers. Naked. Their bodies entwined, leaning against the gates. A small child sleeps near their feet.’

She glides her fingers over his and thinks for a second of their unborn child. ‘This is not such a bad revelation. I should like very much to sculpt two lovers in just such a pose. And a child, the fruit of the womb – this is surely paradise.’

Teucer pulls his hands
free. ‘You must go now and destroy the markings as I asked. No one must see them.’ He falls quiet, hands trembling on his lap.

Tetia takes him in her arms. ‘Shush. Shush.’ She holds his head tight to her.

In her embrace, Teucer softens and grows silent. He lies against her, unable to tell her everything.

Unable to bring himself to say it.

The lovers he saw were himself and Tetia.

They were both dead.

The child at their feet was theirs, and there was no longer any question as to who its father was.

It was the offspring of the beast. Sent to earth to prepare for the day when its father would reveal himself and take what was his.

Present Day

Luna Hotel Baglioni, Venice

Valentina Morassi and her new colleague Rocco Baldoni wait impatiently in the reception area of Venice’s oldest hotel. Valentina finds Rocco a shock to the system after working with her cousin, Antonio. He’s humourless, full of awful machismo, and despite being less than ordinary thinks he’s God’s gift to women. Valentina’s eyes are on Tom Shaman as he slowly walks across the upper-floor landing. He’s talking easily with an elegant blonde, moving lightly for a man of his size and muscularity. The ex-priest has something special, a certain reserve – an enigma, she supposes – that makes him intriguingly attractive.